


Homecoming (A Farm in Iowa ficlet)

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [46]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 10:35:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7636858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming (A Farm in Iowa ficlet)

**Author's Note:**

> For chinawolf

The clock on the dashboard tells John it’s 3.31am right before he turns off the ignition. It feels like no time of day he’s ever experienced, on this world or any other, his body stretched by jet lag and pummeled by missing home. He sits for a handful of careful minutes, arms resting atop the steering wheel, looking out through the windshield at the wash of stars above the fields. Then he catches himself and huffs a laugh, pulls the door release and slips out of the truck to stand with his feet planted on his own, precious dirt, the stars easier to see now, no bug guts in the way. It’s blessedly cool, a breeze blowing in from over Ada’s way, and John stuffs his hands his pockets, walks past the garage, out through the vegetable patch, up to the edge of the field where the corn is growing. The corn rustles and whispers, its share of a familiar nighttime conversation, and up above there are solar systems, galaxies, sending out light from another time to blaze and diminish to a pinprick, a pattern of wonder that feels so close John thinks perhaps he could reach out and scoop up a handful of stars, take them inside, put them in a jar like lightning bugs at dusk.

His lungs full of new, clean air he heads back to the truck, grabs his bag from the passenger seat, and winces at the groan of the door’s hinges, making a mental note to oil those the next day.

The next day. It’s already that day, even though it’s still the day before, and John shakes his head, climbs the steps to the porch and pushes open the back door. The hinges squeak there, too.

The kitchen is a predictable disaster, with cereal bowls piled in haphazard towers, crumbs on the counter, half a PB&J sandwich poking out from under the fridge. There’s a basketball and a soccer ball by the basement door, and an apple with one clean bite taken out of it sitting on the table, anchoring a pile of unopened mail and two editions of the local paper. John steps into the living room, and smiles at the mess there. A paper banner saying wELcomE homE BaFFa flutters gently in the breeze from the open window, only one end still pinned to the wall. There are three piles of Legos – strange hues of blue and grey in the dim light – in front of the television, and one of Merrie’s shoes lies upside down in the middle of the rug. Then there’s the easy chair, the one in which John has rocked his children at hours like these, the one in which Finn insists he watch Star Wars Rebels and Merrie calls her science lab on the regular, the one where Rodney waits for him to come home, fast asleep, mouth wide open, drooling just a little.

John feels his heart pull a hard clatter- _thud_ at the sight of him, shirt wrinkled, a tuft of hair askew, and he crosses the room, crouches down in front of the chair, and gently shakes his arm.

“Whaaaa,” Rodney grumbles, frowning.

“I’m home,” says John.

Rodney’s frown deepens, then smooths, and he blinks three or four times before he seems to see who’s in front of him. “Hey,” he says, smiling.

“Hey.” John shifts to his knees, the better to lean in and press a kiss to that slanted mouth. “Hi,” he murmurs when he pulls away.

“What time is it?” Rodney asks.

“About four,” John offers.

“ _God_ ,” Rodney sighs, and he waves a hand at John, pushes himself up from his chair.

John stands too, catches Rodney’s elbow when he sways. “We should go to bed.”

“Our dear hellions will be awake with the sun,” Rodney agrees mournfully. “They stayed up until eleven.”

“Rodney . . .”

“You try explaining the concept of ‘five more hours’ to a kid who barely understands what ‘today’ means, and another who just wants to brag to Jack Waters that he stayed up the latest,” Rodney says, bristling as best he can while still, John reckons, a quarter asleep.

“It’s fine,” John says, pulling Rodney toward the stairs. “We’ll deal.”

“Always do,” Rodney manages around an enormous yawn. 

John’s surprised when he feels a meaningful tug to the back of his shirt, and he turns around, one eyebrow raised and a question ready, but Rodney leans in and kisses him with a focus that surprises the hell out of him, turns him on a little too.

“Now we can go to bed,” Rodney says, smugly, when they’re done.

John runs a hand through his hair, brain a little muddled after that kind of attention. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

The door to their bedroom squeaks as they close it, the bed groaning as they tumble in. The house, the truck, the bed, this life, John muses – well worn, so very well loved. And he pushes his face against Rodney’s shoulder, lets out a breath he’s been holding for four solid days, and lets himself drift.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Homecoming [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7708258) by [librarychick_94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/librarychick_94/pseuds/librarychick_94)




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